“Will you kiss the damn girl already?” Matty mutters, and Xander’s eyes widen in shock as he snaps a look at his brother. Matty smirks and waves us on. Elliot and Liam have to pick their jaws off the table.
I ignore the cat calls and whispers as I focus back on Xander.
“Well?” I ask, returning a stern expression.
“Well, what?”
“You heard the man. I think I’ve earned a kiss.”
CHAPTER 23
XANDER
In one week we fly back to L.A to start re-tracking “Valentine.” Since it became official, the guys and I have been discussing our plans for the song nonstop. Everything’s still on as scheduled for the release of the single; all that’s changing is the song.
As if I didn’t have enough reasons to love and admire Lydia Carmichael, she’s also the one responsible for today’s miracle: a private meeting with Jesse Everett of Limelight. Matty and I have revered this band since they burst onto the scene a couple of years ago. Tons of people wrote them off after their dramatic fall from grace, but their difficult journey back to the top, combined with Jesse’s storied battle with addiction, a tragic past, and the recent loss of his brother and bandmate only made him more of a role model for us. If anyone will understand our music and our story it’s the man who survived Hell to build this incredible facility for foster children and their families we’re about to enter. Matty and I exchange a look as we push through the colorful entrance to Parker’s Play Yard in his hometown of Philadelphia.
“This place is amazing,” Matty says, scanning the fun, music-themed reception area. Children, adults, and staff bustle around us as we approach the desk and announce ourselves. After confirming our appointment, the woman makes a call while Matty and I sign in. Even the security area looks like a roaring good time with a metal detector decorated like a cartoon stage entrance.
“Mr. Everett is on his way and will meet you just past security,” the woman says with a warm smile. “To your right, please.”
We pass through the checkpoint and take seats in a waiting area on the other side. This entire place seems designed to make you feel comfortable. Cartoons on the walls, green plants everywhere, warm lighting and comfy furniture, it’s the home everyone wishes they had. Also, I don’t remember ever being so nervous in my life.
“Dude, is this actually happening?” Matty whispers, eyes wide as his gaze darts around the space like a hyperactive rabbit. He looks as excited and terrified as I feel. “What do we even say?”
“Don’t know, man. Hopefully he’s used to fangirling?”
Matty snickers, but I can tell by his bouncing knees that we’re about to find out.
If I’d never seen a photo or video of Jesse Everett, I would’ve known him by the wave of enthusiastic greetings following the man who rounds the corner. Matty and I stand, warmed by the radiant smile on his face. He shares it freely along the way, pausing to acknowledge the staff and visitors who seem as starstruck as we are. He’s younger than I expect, our age, which makes me feel even more of a kinship. The dude just oozes charisma. Something about his air reminds me so much of Matty, and a twinge of emotion pierces through me.
“Hey, guys. Thanks for waiting,” he says. “I’m Jesse. Great to meet you.”
“Xander and Matty,” I reply, taking the hand he offers.
“Glad you could make it today. You get a tour yet?”
We shake our heads, still in disbelief that any of this is happening. And yet, there’s a down-to-earth quality to Jesse that tells me he’d be annoyed by any hero-worship. I swallow the temptation to gush; he must know what an inspiration he is to guys like us. After all, he built this palace to give the next generation of abandoned children a chance we never got.
We listen attentively as he guides us around the facility, impressed at every turn. I keep wondering how different our lives could have been if we’d had access to a place like this. He never mentions his own story, but I hear it in every word he says. Especially in the brief silences where he probably flashes back to the dark. I know that place. By the hard set of Matty’s jaw at various points on our journey, my brother goes there too.
The tour itself is twice the length it needs to be thanks to our frequent stops and detours due to our guide’s popularity. You’d think Jesse would be too busy to be a real person to all these people, but it’s obvious he gets as much from the joy on the kids’ faces as they do. We’re in no rush, and Matty and I share silent conversations throughout.
What if? What can we do to help now?
It’s a good half hour before he finally leads us through a door that empties us backstage to a gorgeous auditorium. He smirks when he sees our awed expressions.
“We have a robust music program, obviously, and this is where our students get to show us what they’ve got,” he says, beaming. Can’t blame him. The space is nicer than any of the venues we’ve played on our small tour so far. “What do you think? Want to test it out later for the kids?”
He nods toward the stage that’s already set up with a full drum kit, guitars, and mics. My heart beats a little faster. Was he intending to play with us all along when he invited us here? The Jesse Everett wants to jam with two nobodies who can barely form a sentence in his presence? I glance over at Matty who’s damn close to blowing our cover at playing it cool.
“That would be amazing,” I say before my brother can french-kiss our tour guide.
“Yeah? Sweet. Let’s talk for a bit, and then see if we can round up an audience.”
Matty’s eyes are huge as he nods mutely. I try for a more subtle approach with a smile and a “sounds great.”
We follow Jesse to a green room just offstage and help ourselves to the coffee and water he offers.
“This place is incredible,” I say, lowering myself to a chair near the couch where Matty sits. Jesse drops to the other side of the couch, and I probably should’ve sat between them as a buffer. Matty wouldn’t go in for a cuddle, would he? He still hasn’t said much in all his fanboy wonder, and I’m counting the seconds until I can rip him about this later. I’ve never seen him so starstruck in my life.
“Thanks,” Jesse says. “I’m guessing you know a little about my story and how this place came to be.” His expression sinks into a sadness that sends my gaze toward my brother. God, I can’t even imagine. My stomach lurches at the thought.
“A little. It’s stunning.”
Jesse’s gaze lands on mine, and somehow I know he reads that simple phrase for all the dimensions I meant it. It only makes me love and respect him more. He’s deep, like me. A poet, judging by his music and everything I know about him. A survivor.
He studies his hands for a second, clearly trying to pull himself together. Is it hard for him to see Matty and me together? There’s pain, and then there’s having your soul ripped out. It can’t be easy for him to sit here and see the one thing he can’t have. And yet, that has to be why we’re here. He must see something in us that made him reach out. Feel connected. As we sit in silence, I realize this whole encounter is about so much more than music.
“I saw the posts by the woman claiming to be your mother,” he says finally, confirming all my worst fears. I swallow an instinctive wave of panic. “We looked you guys up when we saw your video of ‘Jonas.’ She do that a lot?”
“Post shit about us?”
He nods, his eyes changing as he studies me.
I cast a nervous glance at Matty before focusing on the floor. “We left home years ago, as soon as we could. She just came back into the picture now that we’re useful.”
“Looking for money?”
“She’s blackmailing us with our past.” The truth slips out on its own, lingers in the heavy air around us. And yet, I don’t regret the confession. It didn’t even feel like one. When I finally dare a look up, his expression hasn’t changed, as if he’d been expecting that answer. Something lifts between us, a floodgate for the rest of his questions and the reason we’re here.
“And your father?”
“Still in Brazil. He hasn’t given a shit about us since he shipped us to New Jersey fifteen years ago.”
Jesse nods, his gaze passing between Matty and me in slow deliberation. “I hear it in your music,” he says finally. “Saw it in those posts by your mother. Let me guess, abuse? Neglect? You survived hell, didn’t you.” There’s a finality to his question, a hardness that makes me certain he’s not asking, but telling us his own story.
Matty has stiffened at his end of the couch, and Jesse seems to notice. His gaze softens as he studies my brother before turning back to me.
“It hasn’t been easy,” I say quietly.
“I heard that in ‘Heaven Help Us.’”
Jesse and I exchange a long look before my gaze slides to Matty. Everything in me wants to dive across the armrest and pull my brother into my arms. To hold onto him until he knows he’s everything to me. That Jesse’s story is fucking impossible because there’s no way in hell I’d ever survive without my brother. I blink back the burn of tears as I hang on to each ragged breath.
When I try to respond to Jesse’s observation, my throat closes around too much history, too much love for the one person who’s lived it with me.
“Can I ask you something?” Jesse asks softly, studying us.
I swallow the heavy knot, shuddering as it sinks into my stomach. I dare a look at Matty whose eyes shimmer with old tears I hate for him. Hate them.
“Who owns your story?” Jesse interrupts. His tone is now matter-of-fact, the voice of someone twice his age. Someone who’s lived our past and then some. When we don’t respond, he leans forward, his gaze cutting into me. “Who owns your past, Xander? You or your mother?”
A club slams into my stomach. I flinch and release a heavy exhale. Matty looks the same, and in our silence the answer is clear. Jesse wasn’t asking. He already knows.
He straightens and settles back into the cushions of the couch, still watching us. His eyes flicker with a strange mix of fire and compassion, an understanding so deep I feel like I’ve just gained another brother.
“There’s only one way to have a future with a past like ours,” he says. “You have to own it. Accept your story and recognize the beauty that came out of the pain. Fucking embrace it. Be proud of the shithole that made you so no one can hurt you with it again.”
The atmosphere changes during our talk. Jesse put himself on our level so we could connect in a brotherhood of survival. With each confession, it becomes clear how much shit we’ve been holding onto, things we didn’t even know we’d been running from. No wonder our mother held such power over us. I’d spent years thinking I’d locked it all up in my mental prison, only to learn I’m not the one holding the keys. I’ve been the real inmate all along, at the mercy of the trials I’d been trying to control. Always fighting.
Always falling.
By the time we wrap up the conversation, it feels natural to give our new brother a hug. He pulls each of us in, his eyes warm and haunted as he lets go. Part of me thinks he needed this meeting as much as we did.
“You know the best thing that came out of your story?” he asks, studying us. “It’s not the music or some record deal. It’s this.” He places one hand on each of our shoulders. “Nothing can touch you as long as you have each other. You survived together, and now you get to go kick the world’s ass together. What you have…” He stops, emotion welling in his eyes as he drops his arms. Clearing his throat, he takes a step back and forces away a deep pain that has me longing to hug Matty. “Anyway, just… don’t ever lose sight of each other. It’s the most precious thing you have. Nothing else matters.”
Matty’s gaze is already locked on me when I turn to meet it. He smiles with a sadness that lodges in my heart, and I can’t help but reach over and squeeze his shoulder.
“Thanks, man. For everything,” I say, addressing Jesse again. It doesn’t feel like enough. “And just know that we’ve got your back too. Anytime.”
He flinches a bit, and I know my aim hit true. He forces a quick smile before visibly clearing his head. Clapping abruptly, he points toward the door. “Okay, so are we gonna play some music or what?”
The part Jesse didn’t tell us? The rest of his band is also onsite and joins us for an impromptu concert that blows the roof off this place. He must have been planning this all along, because the room is packed, the energy off-the-charts. These kids, families, and staff know how to appreciate good music and reward the artists who create it. Matty kills it up front, dancing around with Jesse in a hybrid of styles that has the stage on fire. In addition to our remix of “Jonas,” the Limelight guys also join us for a couple of our songs. By the time we play out with a dramatic end to “Heaven Help Us,” we’re all exhausted and grinning as wide as the kids in the audience.
“That was unbelievable,” I say, clasping hands and pounding backs backstage. Jesse beams, clearly on a high as well.
“Yo, those beats, dude,” their drummer Derrick says, clapping his hands in a way I can only describe as a frolicking seal. Since I was on the full kit, he played a modified three-piece set to create some pretty cool rhythms. “You learn that in Mexico or whatever?”
Jesse winces, rolling his eyes as Matty smirks.
“Brazil, you idiot,” Jay, their lead guitarist mutters.
“Oh, right. Sorry… Wait, I mean, lo siento.” He draws out the last two words and adds a strange bow.
“Desculpe,” Matty corrects.
“No, I was saying I’m sorry but in your language. Lo siento.” For some reason when Derrick speaks Spanish it’s with a very drawn out and low voice.
Matty lifts a brow in my direction, and I try not to laugh.
“Lo siento is Spanish, D,” Jesse says.
Derrick looks even more confused. “That’s what I said.”
“I know, but they speak Portuguese.”
“They’re from Portugal?”
“No, Brazil.”
Derrick’s brain has clearly exploded and is showering all over us in confused ashes. “Oh my gahh-dddd,” he whines.
“We speak Portuguese in Brazil, not Spanish,” I explain, and wish I hadn’t when his expression turns oddly suspicious.
He pulls out his phone and… is he fact-checking me on this?
Jay groans and buries his face in his hands. “I got it,” he says to Jesse before gripping Derrick’s sleeve to drag him away. “Come on, man. Let’s get some food.”
“Wait, because it says here that Spanish is spoken… oh, throughout South America! I thought it was North America.”
Jay’s brow scrunches.
“You know, where Brazil is?” Derrick says.
“Brazil isn’t in North America. It’s… wait, where do you think North America is?”
Derrick shrugs.
“Here! It’s here, you idiot. This”—he waves his arms around us—“is North America. The United States, Canada, Mexico—”
“Um, I thought you said they weren’t from Mexico.”
Jay stares at him like his brain is now exploding all over the stage. “Dude, just…”
“Brazil is the one with the parrots, right? Or was it tigers. Oh man, it’s probably like a fucking zoo there in your backyard with all the animals and trees and shit,” we hear as they disappear backstage.
Jesse squints an apologetic look at us. “So that’s Derrick,” he says, drawing out his name in an eerily close imitation of his drummer’s Spanish-speaking voice. “I’d apologize for him, but I think he’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“Yeah, no need,” I say with a snicker. “We have one of those.”
“One?” Matty adds, and I laugh.
Jesse’s grin slides into a different kind of amusement. “Okay, look. I know you have to get on the road. Six-hour drive back to Virginia Beach, right? But before you go, I wanted to run something by you.”
We nod, my heart already hammering in my chest. Just when I thought there was no way for this
day to get better, Jesse Everett of Limelight says a sentence like that.
He clears his throat, looking pretty damn excited about something. “So the guys and I are blown away by what you did with ‘Jonas.’ How would you like to get into the studio with us and record it for real?”
Meeting an idol is intimidating enough. Meeting an idol and leaving with a new brother, that’s pretty much the recipe for mind-blown. Matty and I don’t talk for the first twenty minutes of our ride back to the venue in Virginia Beach. What is there to say when your world detonates in a good way for once? Of course our answer to Jesse’s final question about a collaboration was yes, once we clear it with all the powers that be. Actually, it was dumbstruck shock followed by some very unsophisticated stammering, followed by what I’m sure Lydia would have described as puppy-dog expressions of wonder. The result was a loose agreement we’d firm up as soon as possible.
“So that was fun,” Matty says finally. I glance over from the driver’s seat, releasing a smirk at his attempt to be understated. His own grin breaks out before I focus back on the road.
“Just another Thursday, right?” I offer dryly.
“Just another Thursday.”
I swallow, staring out the windshield as a darker thought settles over me. “What are we going to do about the rest, though?”
“The stuff he said about Mom?”
“Our narrative.” I pull in a deep breath. “It made a lot of sense. We’ve done everything we could to put our past behind us by ignoring it, pretending none of it happened.”
“Hiding.”
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Hiding.”
“We had to survive. We had to, Lex.”
I nod, blinking back emotion at the plea in his voice. For me or for him? I’d have to see his face to know, and right now I need to drive. It’s a convenient excuse.
“And what about now? Do we still have to hide?” I ask.
He releases an audible sigh. “I don’t think we can. Stacy’s making sure of that.”
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 20